


Mad

by youLOVEamelia



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: 1960s, Alternate Universe, M/M, Mad Men AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-05
Updated: 2013-01-05
Packaged: 2017-11-23 20:01:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/625987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youLOVEamelia/pseuds/youLOVEamelia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Mad Men AU nobody asked for. Arthur Levinson has just been made head of accounts at Cobb Saito, one of the biggest advertising firms on Madison Ave. It's a great opportunity for him, but when he meets the head of creative, Eames, he finds himself falling into the sordid world of suits, alcohol, sex, and money.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mad

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Inception or any of its characters, nor do I make any money off of them.

“Mr. Levinson?” Arthur looked up from his shoeless feet as he walked into Mr. Saito’s office. It was an absolutely stunning mix of East and West—though admittedly more East with enough delicately trimmed bonsai to fit a large greenhouse, an observation that could lead only to marveling at the gargantuan size of the room. This was the dream, the American dream, to have this large an office on Madison Ave. In the year 1961, that dream was not yet dead.

But the room wasn’t just filled with bonsai and vaguely European pieces. There were also people, four people to be exact, counting Mr. Saito and Arthur himself. Sitting to the right of the Japanese man was a blonde with a wide shape, the kind of unexplained wideness certain men acquire when they reach manhood. He wasn’t fat. Just wide. And Arthur couldn’t help thinking that his clean-shaven face could do with a little facial hair, though, of course, he supposed it wasn’t professional for a man to show up at his occupation without the proper grooming.

To Mr. Saito’s left sat a man Arthur was sure he would come to despise in a matter of moments. Perhaps it was a premature judgment of the way he sat, the way he crossed his legs so casually, or how those plump lips hugged that cigarette so closely. Something in his air suggested a sort of superiority. Even wearing a suit, it was clear he was built, strong, the alpha male of this office, so powerful yet so aloof as to never reveal just how much he cared about anything.

“Yes, I’m sorry. I was admiring your décor. You have a very eclectic mix,” Arthur replied, his business smile on his face as he tugged his gaze away from those lips. 

“Thank you, Mr. Levinson. And welcome to Cobb Saito. Let me introduce you to my business partner, Dominic Cobb.” 

The wide-set blonde stood and promptly shook Arthur’s hand. “Welcome to the team,” he said with an easy smile before sitting down and pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his breast pocket. Soon the room would be filled with smoke, what with all three of the men smoking before Arthur. None of them seemed too alarmed about the news that smoking could actually cause lung cancer. But really, neither was Arthur. 

“And this is Thomas Eames, our head of creative.”

Mr. Eames didn’t find it necessary to stand and greet him, giving him a cheeky smirk and a wave hello. “So pleased to meet you, darling. Now take a bloody seat and we’ll grab you some scotch, won’t we Dom?” The other man shook his head but got up and went over to the bar to retrieve a glass of scotch to hand to Arthur, who sat down across from the men while trying to get that English accent out of his head.

“Mr. Levinson, we were very impressed with your resume. It’s very extensive for someone so young. How old are you exactly?” asked Mr. Cobb.

“Now Dom, it’s rude to ask a bird her age on the first date.” He continued to grin that grin as he took another suck from the cancer stick.

Arthur shook his head, trying not to blush. “No, that’s okay. I’m twenty-five.”

Mr. Saito spoke up now. “If you do not mind me asking, Mr. Levinson, what made you leave Fischer Morrow?” Fischer Morrow was considered one of Cobb Saito’s biggest rivals in the advertising industry. It wasn’t odd to be asked a question like this, to test his loyalty.

“It’s not exactly the kind of place to expand,” he replied.

“You’re being a bit vague, petal,” mentioned Mr. Eames.

He did blush at that, but decided to blame it on his drink as he took a gulp of scotch. “It’s a cookie-cutter sort of place. They have a formula and everyone is expected to follow it. I heard that Cobb Saito was a bit more open than that. I didn’t expect to be made head of accounts honestly—”

“Nonsense, darling. You have more than enough credentials for the job. In fact, you make the rest of us look rather shabby. You’ve got some big accounts coming over with you and that says quite a bit,” Mr. Eames provided. It was true. Arthur was bringing over some of the bigger names, including but not limited to Clearisil, Nestle, and Kellogg’s. It was something Arthur was quite proud of, but he forced himself to be modest about it.

“We are very impressed by the loyalty of your clients,” Mr. Saito added. “Let us toast to a bright future for Mr. Levinson here at Cobb Saito.” The four men clinked their glasses and downed the scotch.

Dominic Cobb was the first to stand. “Now’s as good a time as any to show Mr. Levinson his new office,” he said. “Eames?”

“Right-o. Let’s get a move on then.” 

“Sure,” Arthur said, standing as well. He turned to Mr. Saito. “Thank you, Mr. Saito.” With that, the three men left the office, taking the time to put their shoes back on the moment they were out the door.

The main floor of the agency was a large space filled with rows and rows of desks, at which secretaries typed away fervently. As they walked down the hall a woman approached them. She was quite tall and skinny, a brunette with deep-set eyes and the kind of smile that could seduce any man not with sensuality—though there was that too—but primarily with sweetness. She aimed that smile at Mr. Cobb, then at Mr. Eames as she reached them. 

“Arthur, darling, this is Miss Mallorie Miles. She’s the one who keeps this place afloat,” said Mr. Eames. “Mal, this is Arthur Levinson—”

“Our new head of accounts. Of course.” The French accent was unmistakable, and Arthur was sure that it aided her in acquiring any attention she might want—though it was probably a hindrance when it came to discourage any attention she might not want. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Levinson. If you need anything, I hope you’ll let me know.” She turned to the blonde man. “Mr. Cobb, your ten o’clock is in the conference room.”

“Thank you, Miss Miles. Arthur, Eames, I’m sure I’ll run into you later,” he said, earning two nods before walking away with Mal.

Arthur and Mr. Eames continued their walk until they reached a desk in front of an office door. At the desk, stood a blonde woman with a wickedly curvy body and a kind of smoldering look to her face. And yet, she was effortless. “Arthur, this is your secretary, Tallulah.”

“Can I take your coat, Mr. Levinson?” she asked. Nodding, Arthur handed her his coat and his hat. 

Eames smiled as he watched Tallulah make her way into the office situated behind her desk. “She makes a mean drink when you need one, and I do like to watch her walk, don’t you?” He laughed when he saw Arthur’s scowl. “Lighten up, petal. You’ll etch lines into that pretty face of yours by the time you hit adulthood.”

Instead of alleviating his scowl, this simply added a flustered blush to his face. “Mr. Eames, I would appreciate it if you could leave my face out of your thoughts.” 

“It’d be a very great endeavor indeed. It’s such a nice face.” 

Just as Arthur had suspected he might, he was already quite sure he didn’t like this man. He was pretentious, lecherous, and what was that ridiculous shirt he was wearing? His pants weren’t even the right inseam. How was a man like this head of creative at one of the top advertising agencies on Madison Avenue? 

“I’ll let you get settled in your office. Pour yourself another drink, darling. If you’re going to be a stick in the mud, you’re going to need it.” With a wink, he walked away from Arthur, waving flirtatiously at a few of the secretaries as he walked to his office. The office right next to Arthur’s. For a moment it infuriated Arthur to think that he would be sharing a wall with such a frivolous man. But he pushed it aside, closing it in a small compartment towards the back of his mind so he could enter his office with a neutral expression on his face, thanking Tallulah for putting his things away and allowing her to leave, closing the door behind her.

His office was by no means the size of Mr. Saito’s, but it was quite large. There was room enough for his desk, small bar, a couch and a few armchairs. One wall was lined with windows, letting in a nice amount of light. Of course, there were shades ready if the sun became unbearable—as Arthur guessed it would when his headaches came calling. 

Sitting down at his desk, Arthur finally allowed his posture to slump into submission—his exhaustion being the dominant partner in his love-hate relationship with the advertising industry. Drawing a carton of Lucky Strike cigarettes out of his pocket, he lit one cig and sighed as nicotine entered his system. Normally he was a Marlboro man, but with the move to Cobb Saito, he was obliged to switch brands since Lucky Strike was one of the firm’s largest accounts. 

Arthur allowed himself a couple minutes of silence and stillness before diving into his work. He had plenty of accounts with which to familiarize himself. As head of accounts, there were other account men underneath him who were in charge of certain accounts, but it was still his responsibility to know what was going on with them. The big accounts like Lucky Strike would go to him. At least, he would have to make it his priority to make those big clients happy. Sometimes that meant getting them theater tickets or meeting up for a drink while they were in the city. 

But just as Arthur was looking into the Mohawk Airlines account, he heard a noise come from next door. A kind of moaning. But it wasn’t Mr. Eames, unless he made it a habit to let out moans in a high falsetto voice. No. There was a woman in his office, and she was surely enjoying herself there if the following litany of moans and sighs was any kind of indicator. 

Arthur wasn’t new to the business. Plenty of the men he’d worked with at Fischer Morrow brought secretaries and the few female clients they had into their offices, locking the door behind them. And nobody ever questioned it. It was just part of advertising. Sex and alcohol were the norm. It wasn’t any kind of moral code that had Arthur celibate in his work space. Women simply held no interest for him.

Somewhere within the chorus of female whines, Arthur heard a low grunt, a growl of some sort, and he immediately found himself standing, pressing his ear against the wall he shared with the Englishman. It was a low sound, barely audible, but each time Arthur’s patience was rewarded with a masculine moan, he felt himself getting warmer and warmer. 

Suddenly realizing what he was doing, Arthur pushed himself away from the wall, straightening out his waistcoat before sitting back down at his desk. He only sat for a second before he was up again, heading towards the bar to pour himself a scotch and down it in one go. It didn’t do much to help his body temperature, but his limbs loosened and his head cleared just enough for him to momentarily forget the sound of those moans, that accent, that growl. 

Fuck.

 

“Mr. Levinson. Mr. Eames to see you.” Arthur jolted awake at the sound of Tallulah’s voice over the intercom. He’d somehow allowed himself to fall asleep on the couch. The world was a few shades darker than it had been when he’d just rested his eyes. 

“Send him in!” he shouted, sitting up on the couch, running his hands over his face to try and wipe away the weariness. 

Eames walked in, looking at the desk and expecting to see Arthur sitting there before turning to find him on the couch. “You seem to have settled nicely, darling,” he said with a smirk on his face. 

“Sorry, I only meant to rest my eyes for a minute.” 

“Oh, don’t apologize. I didn’t come here to scold you. Thought I’d invite you to get a drink with me this evening. I’d like to get to know you, Arthur.” That accent turned Arthur’s name from the bland title that had earned him the nickname “Wart” in elementary school to a deep, guttural, sexy kind of mating call. 

“Of course, Mr. Eames.” He wasn’t exactly in a position to refuse him. First day on the job, he knew what the hierarchy here was. Thomas Eames was known as one of the best in the business. Many would kill for the opportunity to work with him. So while Arthur wasn’t a huge fan based on what he’d seen so far, he could hardly say no when invited out.

“Brilliant. Get your stuff, send Tallulah home, and let’s go.”

And that was how Arthur ended up sitting at a bar with Eames, downing a third glass of whiskey and beginning to realize it was a mistake to try and keep up with Eames’s alcohol intake. It was a dark, but posh sort of bar, filled with other suits relaxing after a long day in the office. 

When Arthur was drunk, he became even more observant than he was sober, and he was definitely more likely to share his observations. “You’re married,” he said, looking at the golden wedding band on Eames’s left ring finger.

“Solid deduction there, Sherlock,” Eames replied with a grin. “Yes, I’m married. I have two kids too.”

“You’re a father?” Arthur couldn’t imagine it. It was difficult enough thinking about him sleeping with his secretary during the day and going home to be the loving husband at night. Adding children to the mix made it nearly implausible in Arthur’s mind. But there it was. 

“Don’t sound so surprised!” But he laughed. It seemed like nothing could take that smirk off of Eames’s face. 

“Sorry. You just don’t seem like a married man with kids.”

“And pray what do I seem like, Arthur?” If the question hadn’t been enough to stump Arthur, the expression Eames sent his way could silence him forever. The man leaned towards him, looking at him so seriously, the smile still lingering but making enough room for a kind of masculine brooding. 

“I-I don’t know, Mr. Eames. You’ll have to give me a bit more time to come to a conclusion.”

Pretending to think about it for a moment, Eames let the smirk take over his face again, any kind serious emotion gone entirely. “Well, Arthur, I’ll agree to giving you some more time as long as you quit it with this Mr. Eames business. Everyone just calls me Eames.”

“You don’t go by Tommy?” Arthur asked, adding a smirk of his own. Later he would have to convince himself that he absolutely did not have a good time.

Eames shuddered. “Only the wife calls me Tommy.”

And again Arthur was forced to imagine it all, a beautiful house with a white picket fence and two little kids running around a lush backyard. Eames in his Sunday best, grilling some burgers while the kids play. The wife, a thin blonde with a waist small enough to wear a slinky as a belt coming outside with a tray carrying four glasses of lemonade and some refreshing orange slices. She would look like Grace Kelly and wear heels in the kitchen. Eames would tell her she’s beautiful and make sport of mussing her up once the kids were fed and put to bed.

“Arthur? You in there, pet?” He burst from his imaginings at the sound of Eames’s voice. “Thought I lost you for a moment.”

“No, of course not, Eames,” he said, slurring slightly. 

Eames opened his mouth, most likely to comment on how drunk Arthur was, but was interrupted by someone behind them.

“Arthur?” 

It was a familiar voice, one that Arthur had trained himself to hate. Looking up from his drink, Arthur was faced with a man whose hair was too long and unkempt, his five o’clock shadow making him look even less impressive. But there was still that pull of attraction. “Nash,” Arthur said, then realizing that he was being rude by not introducing him to Eames. “Um. Nash, this is—”

“Thomas Eames. I’ve heard all about you, of course,” Nash mentioned. Of course, he had heard of him. Nash worked as a copywriter at Fischer Morrow. Anybody who was anybody in advertising knew Eames. 

“I’m afraid I’m in the dark,” Eames said, frowning slightly. Maybe he’d noticed the way Arthur tensed at the sight of this man, memories of past trysts, heated meetings in storage closets and motels, cropping their way up from the repressed subconscious.

“Mr. Eames, this is Nash Stevens. He’s a copywriter from Fischer Morrow,” Arthur provided. 

Nash looked from Eames to Arthur before placing a tight grip on Arthur’s shoulder. “I’d heard you went to Cobb Saito, but I didn’t think it was true. We miss you over at Fischer Morrow.” Arthur didn’t have to be sober to know what the man was saying. He missed getting laid. He probably hadn’t found a new man to hide from his wife. “I’m sure you’ll miss us too now that you’re starting from the bottom at Cobb Saito.”

Eames stood and smiled. “Actually, Mr. Stevens, Arthur here has been made our head of accounts.”

It was a pleasure for Arthur to see Nash stammer and blanch at this fact, his hand dropping from his shoulder. “W-Well that’s great. Let me buy you a congratulatory drink.”

“No, no, I should be going really,” Arthur said truthfully. He was drunk enough, and Nash’s presence made him eager to leave.

“Right, I should as well. The family’s waiting and all,” Eames offered, lightly grasping Arthur’s arm as the thinner man attempted to stand, staggering slightly. “It was nice to meet you Mr. Stevens.” He shook the man’s hand and ushered Arthur out of the bar and into the cool Autumn air. 

The cold was almost enough to sober Arthur up, but not enough to stop him from giggling the second they got outside. He couldn’t believe he just ran into Nash of all people. That wasn’t even one of his normal haunts. Arthur had spent enough time with him to know that. It was pure luck—or the lack thereof—that brought the two together tonight.

Eames didn’t seem to think it was as funny, which Arthur found quite odd since Eames found most things funny. “Let’s get you into a taxi,” he said, still holding onto Arthur’s arm.

 

When Eames finally got to his home in Larchmont, the lights were all off and everyone was tucked into bed. Shrugging off his coat and hat, Eames walked up the stairs, being careful not to let the steps creak beneath his weight. He peeked into the first door on the right in the hallway leading to the master suite. Hamish was sleeping away peacefully, the eight-year-old oblivious to the rest of the world. The next door revealed the five-year-old Susan tossing and turning as usual. She’d always been a violent sleeper, a kicker on good nights. 

Smiling, he quietly shut the door and headed to his bedroom. And there was Maggie, already asleep, her blonde hair splayed out on her pillow. He liked her best like this, not so perfect, not so prim, so much colder than any woman he’d met in England. 

Once in his pajamas, Eames rested his head on the pillow next to hers, always taking the right side of the bed, and closed his eyes. He could feel Maggie rolling over next to him until he had an armful of her. This was how it was when they were alone, when the children didn’t see them, when the neighbors weren’t at the house for dinner. 

He loved her. But when he closed his eyes, he saw Arthur.


End file.
